"Will she stand it, Tom?" he asked.
"We'll soon find out!" was the laconic reply.
On toward 50 the hand was moving, and soon it had passed that figure. Then it was 55! Still Tom Swift did not take his foot off the accelerator.
"Whew!" whistled Ned. "She's doing better than sixty miles an hour, Tom!"
"That's nothing—downhill!" was the response. But 60 seemed enough, and at that speed—terrific when the size of the machine was considered—Tom held the road wonderfully well. There was no longer the sound of pursuit.
"I guess they saw our tail light and gave up!" chuckled Tom. "We're well out of that!"
"What's the next move?" Ned asked.
"Stop at the nearest place where there are police and give the alarm!" snapped Tom. "I'm not going to let Cunningham get away with the stuff he's trying to pull."
They went on for several miles at this high speed, and then, when faint dawn was rosily tinting the east, they came down off Dismal Mountain to a level road and, inquiring of a passing truckman, learned the location of the headquarters of the nearest State Police.
"So that's the secret of Dismal Mountain, is it?" asked a rather sleepy sergeant who had been on duty all night. Tom and Ned had gasped out their story, touching only the high spots of their capture and escape. "Road agents, train robbers, and bandits hanging out in the castle, eh?" went on the officer.